


Dressing Down

by OnYourMark



Category: White Collar
Genre: Dressing, Five Times, Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-13
Updated: 2010-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:39:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnYourMark/pseuds/OnYourMark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FBI tradition holds that matters of life and death urgency constitute a no-boundaries rule. (And other excuses Peter has made.) AKA "Five Times Peter Insists He Didn't Actually Dress Neal".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressing Down

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme, [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/collarkink/1404.html?thread=2081916#t2081916): Peter helping Neal get dressed. Whether it's because hes sleepy, sick, hurt, traumatised, or even just getting into a fancy dress costume. Actually, if you could make this a '5 times' fic, then I would love you for ever and ever.

_Peter won't cop to the idea that he has ever_ dressed _Neal, mainly because it makes it sound like he once played manservant to him or something. Neal begs to differ._

**1\. Fashion Week**

_Peter claims it's not dressing someone if you pick out their shirt. The fact that he was picking out the shirt is not lost on anyone who hears this story._

"Jesus Christ, we're going to be late," Peter said, pacing. "Will you just choose already."

"This is fashion week," Neal told him, calmly. "Worse, these are fashion critics. You can get away with wearing anything if you're running with designers, Peter. That's all in the attitude. You could wear that to a design meeting and pull it off," he added, pointing at Peter's suit. "With critics it's different."

"What's wrong with this?" Peter asked, looking down at his clothes. "They fit. The suit's new."

"It's bland," Neal told him, studying the shirts laid out on the bed.

"I'm an FBI agent. It's supposed to be."

"What happened to that pink striped number you wore for the Novice Systems gig? I liked that."

"The one that made me look like a peppermint?" Peter asked.

"The one that made you stand out," Neal said.

"We're not arguing about my shirts. We're arguing about your shirts. For the love of God, pick one," Peter insisted.

"Everything sends a message," Neal continued, infuriatingly placid. "It has to be right or they won't even let me in the door."

"They won't let you in the door if you miss your interview, either, and then we're out four weeks' worth of work because you couldn't nail the undercover job," Peter growled. "Look. Fine. Here," he said, and picked up the purple shirt on the end. "This one. Black tie. _Do it_ ," he added.

Neal looked at the shirt. "Hm. That could work," he said. "Daring. Color trends being what they are -- "

"Wear it or I'll make you eat it," Peter said. Neal took the shirt, smoothed out the collar, and pulled it up over his shoulders, buttoning hastily.

"Thanks," he said, beaming, as Peter jammed the hat on Neal's head and shoved him out the door.

* * *

**2\. Bad Cop**

_Peter insists kevlar is not clothing. It's a tool. Ergo it does not count as dressing._

Neal was stripped to the waist, a vertical line of tape running up his midline from navel to sternum to secure the wire in place, and he was complaining loudly about his pants.

"These are horrific. No wonder cops have anger management issues," he said, as a tech handed him his belt. The gun holster was empty, but the others were not -- flashlight, baton, radio, cuffs. "Very Batman," Neal said, buckling it on. "Seriously, they make cops wear these pants all day?"

"Forget the pants," Peter told him, checking the service piece they were issuing him. He held it up.

"Looks pretty real," Neal said.

"Air powered, shoots pellets. It's got a cap function, so if you fire it you _will_ sound like you're lethal," Peter said, putting it in his outstretched palm. "Don't fire it."

"No worries," Neal told him, holstering it and pulling his undershirt over his head, careful not to snag it on the tape.

"You clear on what to do?" Peter asked.

"I am Derek Bell, dirty cop. I'm making a drop of confiscated heroin stolen from an evidence warehouse," Neal recited. "Go in, get the other cops on tape talking about the drop, give the signal. I got this, Peter."

He reached for his uniform shirt, but Peter shifted it aside. Underneath was a kevlar vest.

"Seriously?" Neal asked.

"You want to look the part?" Peter replied.

"You know, they make kevlar waistcoats now," Neal said, reaching for the vest. "They're bulky, but I was thinking about -- " he broke off as Peter lifted it before he could, pressing it to his chest.

"Hold still," Peter said distractedly, and began reaching around him to do up the various chest straps. "Arms out straight."

Neal raised his arms, stiffened his back as Peter pressed on the front of the vest. Peter checked the shoulder straps, tightened one, and let go of the vest, then tightened one of the chest straps too.

"For the first time in a long time," Peter said, hands sliding along the straps, occasionally brushing Neal's ribcage, "I don't have the sweats thinking about you going undercover when guns are involved."

"Aw, do you worry about me?" Neal asked.

"I just got you trained. I don't want all that work bleeding out in some warehouse somewhere," Peter retorted. He smacked Neal on the chest. "Okay, you're good."

Neal reached for his uniform shirt, pulling it on slowly, eyes on Peter as he busied himself activating Neal's wire.

* * *

**3\. Nobody Here But Us Janitors**

_Peter says FBI tradition holds that matters of life and death urgency constitute a no-boundaries rule. Neal is deeply intrigued by this but Peter refuses to elaborate._

They had about thirty seconds before men with guns were going to walk through the staff locker room door and if they found two feds in the locker room there would be lots of bullets.

Neal undressed at lightspeed, jacket-tie-shirt-pants, and Peter wasn't far behind, clothing hastily stuffed in a locker.

"Nice undies," Neal remarked, tossing him a boiler suit.

"Gift," Peter grunted, pulling the suit up over his boxers, which (of course, today of all days) had a map of the New York subway system printed all over them.

"In case you get lost on the subway and need to consult an expert," Neal replied. Peter was already zipping up the one-piece garment of hideousness; he looked over at Neal and found him struggling.

"Something -- the stupid sleeve..." Neal groaned, fumbling with the fabric. Peter stepped over, tugged the sleeves straight, and ordered, "Arms."

Neal put his arms back and Peter shoved the sleeves up over his hands, then reached around before Neal could move and zipped him up from behind. Not strictly necessary, but Neal wasn't complaining.

He slammed his locker shut. Peter reached for a mop in the corner.

"So I said to her," Peter said conversationally, "The Bulls are no way going to go all the way this season, and she said to me, want to make it interesting? And I swear to god," the door was opening, three heavily armed men bursting through, "I've never been so glad to lose a bet in my life!"

Neal forced a laugh, clapping him on the back. One of the men shoved him in the shoulder.

"Hey!" he barked. "You see anyone come this way, last five minutes?"

Peter and Neal both stared at the guns.

"I'm talking to you!" the man yelled. Neal snapped his eyes up to the man's face and gave him a stupid look.

"Nobody came through here," Peter said. "Look, buddy, we got maybe twelve bucks between us -- "

"Aw, fuckit," the man said. "They musta gone the other way. You never saw us," he added, and Peter and Neal both shook their heads.

The door closed behind them. Neal exhaled and leaned against the locker.

"You want to mock my underwear now?" Peter asked. Neal shook his head. "Okay then. Out the window we go."

* * *

**4\. Medical Necessity**

_Peter reasons that this was not dressing, it was undressing. Neal insists that sweatpants are still clothing. Neither of them is comfortable with Elizabeth pointing out that undressing is not really less scandalous than dressing._

Neal was shot.

The thought ran through Peter's mind, over and over: Neal was shot. The antiques dealer Neal had been looking into wasn't even an FBI case and definitely didn't have a license for that firearm, and Neal was shot.

They found him bleeding out in an alley behind the pawnshop. The wound wasn't serious but the blood loss was, and they kept him in the hospital for two days before they let Peter take him home. And all Peter thought for two days was _Neal was shot._

Neal was also pale, still, and very high. In the hospital, he alternated between sitting quietly and staring at something (or nothing), very short bursts of coherence, and sleep. He was on prescription painkillers by the time they let him go, but he was still eerily quiet as an orderly brought him out. They'd given him a set of scrubs to wear; Peter had thought about bringing him clothes, but most of Neal's clothing was complicated, and Neal didn't need complicated right now.

"Hey," Peter said, as he pulled out of the hospital parking garage. "Neal? Are you tracking?"

Neal turned to him, slow and stiff. "Yeah, I'm okay," he said. Nothing else. Like it was hard for him to think about words.

"I'm taking you to our place," Peter said.

"The office?" Neal asked, and then snorted. "Elevator should be fuuuuun."

"No, not -- mine and Elizabeth's," Peter corrected.

"Stairs," Neal said. "Even more awesome."

"Nice to know you're a happy drunk," Peter muttered. Neal kept looking at him, eyes half-lidded, the entire way home.

He managed to get up to the front door under his own steam, but then he leaned heavily against the wall and stared up at the second floor like it was miles away.

"Stairs aren't awesome," he told Peter. "I lied."

"I won't hold it against you," Peter said. "You want some help?"

Neal nodded, looking pathetic. Peter wrapped Neal's arm around his shoulders, put his own around Neal's waist, and hoisted him up the stairs, Neal struggling along and half the time making it harder on them both.

"This is really sad," Neal observed, halfway up.

"You're telling me," Peter said, and lifted again. Neal's other arm, still in its sling, bumped against the wall. "You okay?"

"Feeling no pain," Neal answered.

When they finally made it up the stairs, they staggered into the guest room and Neal sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his arms.

"My clothes smell like hospital," he said. Peter put his hands on his hips and considered the issue.

"Stay there," he said, and went to get some sweatpants. When he got back, Neal was halfway out of his shirt, fussing with the sling. Peter rolled his eyes, tossed the sweatpants on the bed, and unbuckled the sling's strap, easing Neal's arm away from his body just enough to pull the shirt off.

"Thanks," Neal said, throwing the shirt as far away from the bed as he could. Peter put the sling back on, tugged Neal by his good shoulder until he was standing, and then leaned him against his chest.

"This is going to be undignified," he said. Neal just nodded against his shoulder. Peter hooked the waistband of the scrubs and tugged them down, then sidestepped with Neal to get them off his ankles. Neal, pliant and probably half-asleep, put his whole weight on Peter, who staggered momentarily.

"I ever tell you you're freakishly strong?" Neal asked.

"Every time you're this high," Peter assured him. "Wait, freakish?"

"You're like the X-Men or something," Neal mumbled. Peter lowered him back to the bed. Neal rubbed his good hand over his knee, back and forth, like a nervous tic. Peter bent and threaded Neal's feet through the sweats, careful not to snag the cuffs on the tracker, and then up his legs.

"Hips," he said. Neal lifted up just enough to get the sweats all the way over his hips.

"Much better," Neal said approvingly, as if Peter had just accomplished something important. He tilted his head and turned it, which looked like it hurt, until Peter realized he was trying to read the faded writing printed down one leg of the sweats.

"Qua tico," Neal said. "That just makes no sense. Qua is French. Tico is Spanish. Why are they on your pants?"

Peter, crouched in front of him, grinned.

"Quantico," he said.

"Ohh." Neal nodded. "That's way more logical."

"Okay, buddy, time to sleep it off," Peter said, tugging the blanket out from under Neal and giving him a push. Neal slid back on the bed and curled up on his side, injured arm tucked in against his chest a little. "Yell if you need anything."

"Thanks for the pants," Neal mumbled. Peter left him to sleep while he went outside and had a brief nervous breakdown (Neal was _shot_ ) and then collapsed in relief (Neal was safe here) and then made himself a sandwich.

Life with Neal Caffrey: never boring.

* * *

**5\. Complicated Knots**

_Sex games don't count either, apparently._

"This is seriously what you want?" Peter asked, holding Neal's belt in one hand, looking vaguely confused.

"Humor me," Neal said. His undershirt was skin-tight and his pants were threatening to slip off his hips, which wasn't a great motivation, but Peter shrugged and set the belt down, picking up the shirt Neal had laid over the chair.

He helped Neal into the shirt, standing behind him, smoothing the line of the shoulders when it was on. Neal held out his hands, the insides of his wrists turned upwards, and Peter picked up his cuff links, fitting them in one at a time, fingers brushing the pale skin there.

On the bed, Elizabeth sat back and watched, eyes dark. Peter glanced at her as he fastened the second cuff link. She gave him an encouraging smile.

Neal twitched his arms, settling the fabric there, while Peter buttoned his shirt, head bent almost against Neal's chest, fingers careful. He tucked it into the waistband of the pants -- took a few extra seconds in the front, making Neal whimper briefly -- and then picked up the belt again, slipping it through the loops. He buckled it carefully, tugging a little to make sure it was snug.

Knotting a tie around someone else's neck, when you've had decades of experience doing it around your own, is complex. Peter frowned, concentrating on reversing the movements, and finally tightened the knot up against Neal's throat. Neal lifted his jaw.

Peter picked up the little metal bar from the dresser and slipped one end through the slit in the collar, under the tie, and then through the other collar-tip. It was, he had to admit, intimate -- Neal's throat bared, the tender skin under his jaw open and vulnerable, and the heat of Neal's body very close to his own.

He pulled back, finally, and helped Neal into his jacket, then came around to the front again and smoothed the lapels. Neal beamed at him, raised his hands and held Peter's head still while they kissed.

"See?" he said, into Peter's mouth. "Now you get why putting in your cuff links drove me _insane._ "

"Yeah?" Peter breathed.

"Dressing can be fun, too."

"Your kinks are strange to me," Peter replied. Neal laughed.

"Well, it's your turn now," he said, leaning forward so that his lips brushed Peter's ear. "Want to take it off again?"

"And undo all my hard work?" Peter asked, and felt Neal shiver. "No. You keep that on."

"But -- " Neal protested, as Peter brushed past him and crawled onto the bed, straddling Elizabeth's lap. The protest died in his throat as he watched them kiss. The next time Peter looked up, Neal was sitting in a nearby chair, looking every inch the fashion plate.

"Don't stop on my account," Neal said. "Let me know when you want -- "

Peter reached out, grabbed his tie, and pulled him in.

"How much do you like those pants?" he growled.

**Author's Note:**

> When I posted this fic I ended it with, _And if someone out there loves me, they will write the obligatory "And one time Neal returned the favor"._ I got two glorious fills for this prompt!
> 
> [Fill #1](http://community.livejournal.com/collarkink/1404.html?thread=2100092#t2100092): Neal in a frilly apron.   
> [Fill #2:](http://community.livejournal.com/collarkink/1404.html?thread=2101884#t2101884) Neal looking after an injured Peter.


End file.
